


Some Nights

by Elizabeth_Woodville



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (Love that tag!), Contemporary AU, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Slow Burn, Which is kinda the default for these dumbasses, but i digress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Woodville/pseuds/Elizabeth_Woodville
Summary: This has ZERO (0) plot or any sort of cohesion to it, but I kinda like it??? I just saw Les Miz and I've got a lot of feelings about it...
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	Some Nights

_Believe in me, ‘cause I don’t believe in anything (Help me believe in anything) I want to be someone who believes…_

None of them really remembered what ABC stood for. 

There were vague theories, raunchy suggestions, but really, it was anyone’s guess at this point. Combeferre was insistent that it was the Activists’ Something or Other Cooperative. Joly called them the Awesome Badass Club, Jehan claimed it was All who Believe in Change. Bahorel staunchly believed it should be the Anarchists’ Bro Code. Courfeyrac vouched for the Angsty Bitches Coalition. 

“Anachronistic Badgers Copulate,” Feuilly suggested once. 

“Awfully Bodacious Condoms,” Bossuet had replied solemnly.

“YMCA?” Courfeyrac interjected. 

Combeferre shot him a puzzled look. “Courf, you’re Jewish.”

“You’re an atheist,” he replied with a shrug. “We can swap the _C_ if it’s that important.”

He high-fived Bossuet, and really, there was no coming back from that point. There was, however, a whiteboard that had been commandeered solely for jotting down acronyms. 

Apricot-Bearing Coalminers.

Articulate Beekeeping Chums.

Assholes Be Chillin’.

Assorted Bad Choices.

Anybody But Courfeyrac.

America’s Boldest Crusaders.

American Broadcasting.

Abstract Bologna Conditions

Always Be Closing.

Antagonistic Blowjob Corp.

Anarchy By Choice.

Almost Book Club.

Airway, Breathing, Circulation.

Apollo’s Boot Camp.

About Bee Communism.

Ambiguously Bisexual Cowboys.

Advanced Broletariat Class.

At this point, even Enjolras couldn’t be bothered to figure it out. And that was that.

“Like the Fellowship of the Ring,” Joly said one day, sighing dreamily in his best impersonation of Jean Prouvaire.

“There were only nine in the Fellowship,” Bossuet countered. “And ten of us.”

“Easy,” Bahorel had said. “I’m Boromir.”

“Well, that clears things up.”

Bahorel pondered for a minute.

“Frodo, Merry, Pippin, Sam, Gandalf, Aragorn, Gimli,” he declared, pointing to Marius, Bossuet, Joly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, and Feuilly. It was obvious he’d put a lot of thought into this. “Jehan, I can’t figure you out, I’m working on it.”

“And Enjolras?”

“Legolas.”

“I see your Legolas and raise you Galadriel,” Grantaire said, cocking his eyebrow.

“Explain,” Bahorel said, resting his chin on his folded knuckles.

“ _In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!_ "

“Fuck, you’re right.”

Grantaire often wondered if he ought to feel a little more out of his league. The events of last meeting came to mind.

“Courfeyrac and Prouvaire will be visiting the 18th, and will report on this at Wednesday’s meeting,” the Fearless Leader had been saying.

Grantaire let out a laugh; the rubber band he’d been aiming at Bossuet’s left ear had finally hit its intended target.

“Something to say, Grantaire?” Enjolras glared, and all the eyes in the room turned to him.

“Always,” the man in question replied, smirking playfully. 

“Does it pertain to anything we were just talking about?”

“Depends.”

“Upon?”

“What were we talking about?”

“Oh, for the love of— why do I bother?”

Grantaire took a swig of his scotch, motioning towards the bartender for another. “You tell me, chéri.“

Enjolras looked like he was about to grab Grantaire by the scruff of his neck and toss him to the curb like an unruly kitten. Courfeyrac, ever in tune with the Chief, put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Grantaire was unruly. He was a wild card.

Grantaire wasn’t a scholar by any means. But he’d read the classics.

Perhaps that was why he was such a cynic. 

The knights of the Round Table, led not by Arthur, but Apollo, by Saint Michael the Archangel himself. He’d read _Gone With the Wind,_ seen the reflection of his love in the haughty perseverance of Scarlett O’Hara. Determined and beautiful and didn’t know the meaning of surrender.

(Lord, show me how to say no to this…)

Always running and running.

Courfeyrac was Dean Moriarty, the wild angel, rogue on the run. Bahorel was Henry V, though his Prince Hal side often made itself known at the Musain. Jehan was Ponyboy, a lover amidst fighters, full of sunsets and cigarettes and Frost quotes galore. Combeferre was Atticus Finch. Defender of truth, protector of the innocent. Marius was Romeo, pining over some long-lost Rosaline, searching for an unknown Juliet. Joly and Bossuet were Holmes and Watson. Feuilly was Pip from _Great Expectations_. Gavroche was Peter Pan, running around the city like it was his very own Neverland, his gaggle of Lost Boys at his heels.

Grantaire couldn’t help but wonder. Who was he, in this metaphor?

Icarus, he thought. He’d keep flying closer and closer to the sun until it shot him down into the abyss.

He thinks about Sisyphus, trekking towards a goal he’ll never reach, bulldozed by his own hopes and dreams again and again. 

Psyche, who wanted answers, and fucked herself over in searching for them. 

Orpheus, who couldn’t help but look back, and had his love ripped from his grasp. Again.

Echo, who faded away, pining for a man who never knew she existed. 

He thinks about Icarus. Flying, falling, drowning, dying. 

So it goes.

_A typical meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC:_

Courfeyrac had acquired a ukulele. No one was quite certain how or where or even when this had occurred, only that one day their little corner of the Musain was filled with the pitchy, mismatched chords of someone trying (read: failing) to pluck out the tune of Wonderwall.

Needless to say, the meeting quickly derailed. Which wasn’t unusual in itself. But stranger still was the fact that Enjolras allowed it. 

“What do we strive for? If not to better ourselves, each other, by seeking to right those transgressions against---”

“To right the unrightable wrong,” Grantaire interjected. Enjolras looked puzzled, aghast. He almost nodded in agreement before Grantaire started to sing.

“ To love pure and chaste from afar!”

Bahorel, Feuilly, and Jehan joined in. Courfeyrac was fumbling frantically for his ukulele. “To try when your arms are too weary! To reach the unreachable star! This is my quest, to follow that staaaaaaaaaaar----”

“Fuck it,” Enjolras said. “Meeting dismissed.”

“Now that wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, eh, Enj?”

“If I have to listen to Joly croon along to the Hercules soundtrack again, I’ll lose my shit.”

“To be expected. After all, you’re only human.”

_NOW._

The Musain wasn’t much. 

Couple of grungy old booths and sticky tabletops. A pool table that had belonged to Madame H’s late husband in his college days. The ancient pinball machine, where Jehan and Bahorel fought for the high score. 

Éponine was currently winning. 

The grimy bathroom where someone (read: Courf) had sharpied Enjolras’ number over the toilet, with the caption, ‘Who needs Five-Year Plans when you can have a One Night Stand? Call for a revolutionary time!’ 

A semi-functioning jukebox chugged along in the corner. Bossuet had gotten it stuck on the same Spice Girls album for a month and a half, and Courfeyrac had broken it while attempting a drunken impersonation of The Fonz. 

Honestly, it was a wonder Hucheloup hadn’t tossed them out on the streets. She’d threatened to, several times, and they feared they’d be forced to meet in the student Union. 

If they were to be honest, they spent more time there than in their dorms or apartments. Musichetta often joked that they oughta just start paying rent. 

There was karaoke night every other Wednesday, Trivia Night on the second Tuesday of every month. 

Then there were the official meetings. The ones that Courfeyrac supposedly kept minutes for. 

(He wasn’t fooling anybody. Grantaire has seen Courf’s notes. There was a page decorated with tiny rocket ships, another that was completely blank but for the caption ‘Meeting, 11/17’. )

These meetings happened every Thursday. Enjolras would wear his nice red sweater that he saved for semi-casual social interactions. Combeferre would hand out color-coordinated charts and pamphlets. Bahorel would be cursing up a storm, trying to get the Chief’s weekly PowerPoint to work. 

Twenty-Four hours later would find Grantaire getting plastered. Feuilly and Bossuet would be teaching Gavroche how to hustle pool, Joly would be playing wingman for Marius. Marius, who nearly fell off his stool when a pretty girl smiled at him. Courfeyrac will have commandeered the jukebox, drunkenly crooning along to Cyndi Lauper until Combeferre took pity on him and dragged him back to the corner booth. Bahorel and Eponine would be slamming shots and comparing fantasy leagues. 

Enjolras, as it were, would sit with a notebook or a novel, curled up in the corner as if he were in a coffeehouse instead of a bar. 

He’d asked him about it once.

“Someone has to be designated driver,” he’d said, indicating the drunken shenanigans unfolding around them.

Grantaire hadn’t known quite what to say to that, so he’d shrugged and returned to where Marius was attempting a keg stand. Courfeyrac and Joly were holding him by the feet. 

_(Attempting_ being the operative word. He was succeeding in the moment, yes. But if Marius was a disaster while sober, he was the sloppiest, most tempestuously disastrous drunk known to man. Courf was cheering now, but he wouldn’t be when Marius lost his liquor all over his new Heelys. That’s usually how these nights went.)

“But there has to be something,” he’d continued, lighting up another cigarette. “Is there anything you will drink, Apollo?”

“Is there anything you won’t drink, Grantaire?” Enjolras bit back.

“Beaujolais Nouveau,” he quipped. “I don’t care how traditional it is; if your tradition tastes like ass, you oughta find a new tradition. Besides, flash-fermenting’s a fucking nightmare.”

“White Claws,” said Prouvaire, with the air of one delivering a eulogy.

“Also a fucking nightmare,” Grantaire conceded. “Thank you, Jehan.”

“I mean, seriously, how the _hell_ is your liver still going?”

“It’s regenerative,” he crowed. “Right, Joly?”

Joly looked startled, having been engrossed in conversation with Musichetta at the other end of the bar.

“When I said it grows back, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re like… like that Greek dude who gets his liver shredded daily!” Bossuet called. 

Grantaire grinned at Jehan. “You heard the man. I’m a goddamn modern Prometheus.”

With that, Jehan rolled his eyes and left.

Enjolras rolled his eyes and returned to his book. “Whatever.”

“So articulate.”

“Guilty as charged,” Enjolras replied. “Not too dim-witted yourself, Grantaire.”

Grantaire balked for a moment. “What happened to you?”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Are you two done?”

They both froze, whipping around to see Gavroche, arms folded and leaning against the doorframe. 

“The big kids are talking, Gavroche,” Grantaire said bitterly.

“Fuck off, R,” he replied, taking the barstool in between them. “I’ll take a scotch. Make it neat.”

Enjolras snorted. “Make it a Shirley Temple with an extra cherry.”

“Fuck you.”

“You need to expand your vocabulary.”

“The public school system has failed me.”

“I don’t think that’s quite how that works.”

“I think your social justice warriors club should take on the school board next. That’d be fun.”

“We don’t do it for fun, kid,” Enjolras replied.

“Well, what’s the point then?”

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond, but was abruptly cut off by Grantaire. 

“Well, Gav… Courf does it for the babes,” Grantaire said, indicating Courfeyrac, who had a pretty redhead on his lap. “Jehan does it for the poetry of it all. Bahorel likes to fight. Joly joined because he thought we were doing a model U.N. and he wanted in. Combeferre genuinely cares about people. Feuilly’s life sucks, so he’s out to change some things. Marius was failing his poli sci class, so he started studying with Enj one day and just kinda kept showing up. Bossuet… well, nobody knows about Bossuet. And Enjolras does it because he was put on this earth to lead the oppressed peoples of the land out of the Valley of the Shadow and into the light of truth, justice, and liberty. It’s our manifest destiny.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Duh.”

“Kid, I’m just here for the cheap booze.”

Gavroche raised an eyebrow, sipping his Shirley Temple pensively. “If you say so.”

“I---”

“Hey, man. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Gavroche shrugged. “You’re not _that_ stupid, R.”

“He’s not stupid,” Enjolras said, never looking up. “Loud. Arrogant. Spiteful. But not stupid.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “What the fuck did they give you?”

Gavroche examined them both closely, the way he’d examine a spider before sneaking off to scare someone with it. “I take it back. You’re both clueless.”

“Any idea what he’s on about?” Enjolras asked. 

“Not a clue,” R replied. “Seriously, is something wrong?”

“No?”

“Have you been drugged?”

“For fuck’s sake, R!” he exclaimed. “Are we not allowed to have a civilized conversation? Am I not allowed to talk to you without us bitching and berating and belittling each other?”

Grantaire swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I’m sick of it,” Enjolras said softly. “I don’t… you’re not my enemy, R.”

“Thanks, I think?”

Enjolras huffed out a laugh. “I’m just saying, the world’s a shitty enough place without us being at each other’s throats all the time.”

“So why do we do it?”

“Beats me.”

“Kinda pointless, really.”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire glanced over. “Why are you suddenly all quiet?” 

“I think I realized what Gavroche was talking about.”

“What d’you--”

“Grantaire,” he started carefully. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“That’s what you’re doing now, isn’t it?”

“I meant, can I ask you something?”

“Better than anybody I know, Chief.”

Enjolras frowned. 

“I was wondering if my feelings towards you, which have drastically shifted in the last few months, are indeed reciprocated.”

That was not what he was expecting.

Oh, sweet Jesus Christ.

This wasn’t Scarlett O’Hara, he realized. This wasn’t _Taming of the Shrew._ This was so much worse. This was Mr. Fucking Darcy.

And with that, the golden angel before him took him by the chin and kissed him.

Maybe it was a moment, maybe a century, before Enjolras pulled away.

His face blushed a deep crimson before going sugar-white.

“Enjolras--”

“I… I’ve got so much work to do.”

“Enj--”

But Enjolras had already grabbed his jacket and was out the door.

Well. Fuck.

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

_Another typical meeting._

“Yeah, yeah,” Grantaire said dismissively. “‘The quality of mercy is not strained, it falleth as a gentle rain from heaven, blah blah blah.”

He’d expected Enjolras to scoff and roll his eyes. Instead, he grinned, his blue eyes filled with the electricity that preceded a witty rejoinder the way thunder precedes lightning. 

“You realize you just missed the ultimate opportunity to utilize the Saint Crispin’s Day speech.”

Grantaire balked. “Well, fuck.”

“Too quick-witted for your own good.”

“It’s a curse to be this brilliant,” he quipped, raising a bottle towards Enjolras. 

“Brilliant?” Enjolras said crisply. “Well-read, perhaps. Brilliant’s a bit of a stretch.”

“Say what you will---”

“Flattery’s not a good look on you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire smirked. “Make me a willow cabin at your gate,” he started. “And call upon my soul within the house---”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Grantaire---”

“— write loyal cantons of contemnèd love, and sing them loud even in the dead of night—“

“Knock it off.”

“Halloo your name from the reverberate hills and make the babbling gossip of the air cry out, ‘Enjolras!’”

“Christ’s sakes.”

“Oh, you should not rest between the elements of air and earth but you should pity me.”

“Oh, I pity you,” he interjected. “No, pity’s not the right word---”

“Detest? Despise? Disdain?”

“Disdain’s not a verb.”

“Did I say it was?”

“Well, you used it wrong.”

“Pray tell, Schoolhouse Rock,” Grantaire said, resting his chin on both his hands. “How does a bill become a law? Whatever happened to Interplanet Janet?”

“Can we get back to the PowerPoint?” Courfeyrac blurted. “I’ve got a hot date in an hour.”

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

_THE NEXT EVENING._

Marius was, in a stunning turn of events, actually three whole minutes early today.

He looked depressed as hell, a bit like a lost puppy, but he was early.

“How now, Romeo?” Jehan called. “How ist with thy fair Juliet?”

“Alas,” Marius said glumly, still playing along. “She is kept in a tower high above we mere mortals.”

“Woe is me!” Bossuet said pretending to faint. 

Jehan pauses, contemplating. “We must call upon a knight of the ABC, to rescue this fair princess.”

“Indeed,” Joly declared. “‘Tis our duty!”

“But whoever shall take up such a quest?”

Bahorel started a drumroll at the bar, Joly and Bossuet started chanting Pontmercy’s name. 

“Lord Marius, knight of the ABC!” 

“Most noble paladin!” 

“By our lady—”

“And by thine,” Bahorel interjected with a wink. 

“—we hereby grant thee a most valiant quest,” Grantaire continued. Marius downed his drink. “Thou must journey forth unto the very breach of chaos, where your sweet Dulcinea awaits!”

“Here, here!” Courfeyrac entered, propping his sunglasses on his head and applauding. 

Marius was motioning to Musichetta for another shot of something strong.

“To slay the monster that enslaves thy fair bride!” Joly declared.

“Verily,” Grantaire agreed.

“Okay, now it’s starting to sound like the basic premise of Mario,” Bahorel said with a snort. Joly flipped him off.

“The goodly council of the Knights of the Musain do kindly implore thee to fuck off,” Courfeyrac said, elbowing him. 

“Sir Marius, what say you to this challenge?”

“Where do you guys get this shit?”

“High school Shakespeare,” Grantaire said, just as Courf replied, “D and D.”

“I hate that that makes sense,” Marius groaned.

“Arise, good knight,” Jehan said. 

Marius stood, reluctantly. Jehan tapped him on the shoulders with his copy of Frankenstein. 

“By the power vested in Jean Prouvaire,” Joly said solemnly. “Thy fellow knights doth proclaim this quest to be official.”

There was a clinking of glasses. Bossuet made the sign of the cross. 

“Well, boys,” Courfeyrac said, putting his feet up on the table. “Another one bites the dust. Who’s next?”

“Huh?”

“Matchmaker time is upon us once more,” Bahorel said.

Jehan nodded. “JBM is still going strong, Bahorel and what’s-her-face—“

“Élodie.”

“Jehan’s got a date with the cute barista at the bookstore cafe, and I’m pretty sure Eponine and Combeferre might have a thing going.”

“Really?”

“Well, if not, they should.”

“What, is it your turn?”

“No,” he replied gravely. “I am Yente. Knower of all, master of none, fiddling on the roof.”

“That’s not…”

Enjolras chose that moment to enter the room, hair tousled from the wind and red scarf fluttering in his wake. Combeferre was at his side, already opening his notebook.

He hadn’t even set his stuff down before he was calling the meeting to order.

“Is everyone here?” he asked. “Look alive, Pontmercy, we’ve got shit to do.”

“Jesus, Apollo, cut him some slack. I wouldn’t expect a god like you to understand the pangs of love we mortals revel in—-“

Courfeyrac shot him a warning look. The room went eerily silent.

“I see,” Enjolras replied. And _shit_ , Grantaire hadn’t thought it possible for the man before him to become even colder. If he was marble before, this was an ice sculpture of Michelangelo’s own doing. “Did you ever consider that I merely grow disenchanted with the excessive revelry that seems to follow you like a swarm of locusts?”

“Did you ever consider getting that two-by-four surgically removed from your ass?”

“Are you physically incapable of being anything other than the class clown?”

“Here I thought you enjoyed our little talks.”

 _“Ad hominem_ attacks and drunken slurs can hardly be considered casual conversations, Grantaire.”

“Well, challenge accepted.”

“For someone who loves challenges, you’d think you’d be a semi-productive human being.”

“Now what would an ice-cold robot like you know about my humanity?”

“Get out.”

Grantaire looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Get out,” he repeated. “If you’re going to be a nuisance, you can do it elsewhere.” 

“I can do whatever I want,” he replied. 

“Not here,” Enjolras snarled. 

“Watch me,” Grantaire bit out. 

“Why are you here? What exactly do you expect to get out of this?”

“We’ve been over this before, Apollo.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said wryly. “So I’ll go.”

“Good riddance.”

“You’re not worth the trouble.”

“I’m not worth it? I’m not _worth it?_ If there was a close-out sale on human beings, you’d be the last one to sell!”

“Yeah, you oughta know, Apollo.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you spend your whole life looking at the price tag instead of the merchandise. Side effect of being a poor little rich boy—”

(Someone in the background choked on their drink at that.)

“You know damn well—”

“You’re not a person, you’re a statue,” he growled. “Spend more time working than smiling, more time with business than—”

Enjolras barked out a cold laugh. “Oh, and _your_ way is better? Spending more time screwing up than moving up?”

“Is that what you believe in? Moving up?” 

“I’ll tell you what I don’t believe in; I don’t believe in wasting any more time on you!” he screamed.

“Well, then! What the hell are you still doing here?”

“I’m attempting to run a meeting---”

“You’re president of a college politics club, not Eva Peron!”

“--- and yet, here I am, spending my evening having another pointless argument with you!”

“How fucking thoughtful of you, coming down from your ivory tower to spend an evening with little old me—”

“Just leave!”

“Go to hell!”

Grantaire slammed his chair against the floor. “Fine!”

He marched up to Enjolras, shoved his copy of _The Iliad_ against his chest, and left with the slamming of the door. 

Without missing a beat, Enjolras flung the book against the door, before storming off himself.

Musichetta was the one to break the silence.

“Okay: what the _fuck_ just happened? _”_

The others could only gape. 

Combeferre, ever eloquent, spoke up, saying what they were all thinking: “Shit.”

“Shit,” Courfeyrac echoed. “Damage control?”

“Not it,” Bossuet said. Prouvaire and Pontmercy both looked to be near tears. 

“Fucking morons,” Bahorel said, shaking his head. 

“C’mon, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac said. “We’ll call if we get anything figured out.”

Joly nodded. “We’ll circle back by R’s apartment just in case.”

Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’ book and headed for the door.

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

Grantaire was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette when Courfeyrac and Combeferre cornered him.

“What did you do?”

“Huh?”

“E’s upset,” Combeferre replied. 

“Funny,” Grantaire muttered. “He’s so stoic I can hardly tell.”

“R,” he said with a frown.

“What’s wrong with Our Fearless Leader then?”

“I don’t know, I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“How do you know something’s wrong?”

Courfeyrac glared at him. “Because he’s sitting in his room, rewatching his favorite political bloopers. Didn’t even react when Bush got hit in the face with that shoe.”

“That bad, huh?”

“R, seriously,” Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell’s going on with you two?”

Grantaire resisted the urge to sigh dramatically and throw his hands in the air. “Why don’t you ask Enjolras?”

“Have you met Enjolras?”

“Unfortunately.”

“He doesn’t hate you, R.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“He doesn’t. It’s more like… you know that scene in Sister Act?”

“The fuck---”

“Hear me out---”

“What---”

“Just... d’you remember that look Maggie Smith gives Whoopi Goldberg when she gets all the nuns to jam to Hail Holy Queen?”

“Dude. Maggie Smith gives _everybody_ that look. In every movie she’s ever---”

“She’s the Dowager Countess of Grantham,” Combeferre said without looking up from his book. “I daresay she’s entitled.”

“Okay, but that’s how E looks at you!”

“Are… are you shitting me right now?”

“Courf doesn’t fuck around when it comes to movie musicals, R,” Combeferre replied. “You know this.”

“Listen,” Grantaire countered. “I don’t think you get it. I tried. I really did. Opened myself up to him and everything. He wasn’t having it. So please, for the love of God, can we all just let it go?”

“No can do,” Courfeyrac replied, kicking a rock towards the wall. “We can fix this.”

Combeferre looked pensive. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“Obviously. You saw how that went.”

“Grantaire.”

He sighed. He was getting real sick of people saying his name like that.

“What would you like me to do, Combeferre?”

“You two need to bone before the ABC dissolves into anarchy as a result of you stupid motherfuckers and your unresolved sexual tension!” Courfeyrac explained. “For fuck’s sake, it’s not rocket science!”

Combeferre gave a wry, knowing smile. “I actually agree with Courf on this.”

He tossed him a key. “Head over to our place. Try not to break anything. Or kill each other.”

“And please, dear _Lord,_ don’t have sex in our kitchen.”

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

_THEN._

Grantaire was the kind of drunk who got sad and melancholy and eventually passed out at the end of the night. Joly never drank enough to get well and truly plastered. Bossuet, on the other hand, was a sloppy and needy drunk. Jehan got flirty and daring. Drunk Jehan didn’t happen often, but when it did, there were always bets and deals to be dealt with the next morning. Bahorel, oddly enough, went from belligerent to sappy and sentimental. Combeferre, like Joly, didn’t drink much. However, he had just enough experience to be known as Drunk Courf’s partner in crime.

Courfeyrac under the influence was positively _giddy._ He required almost constant supervision, and like a coked-up Energizer Bunny, he just kept going and going until he was wrestled into a cab, to the apartment and into his bed. 

That was the way of things. Grantaire would wax poetic all evening. Courfeyrac would storm the jukebox for a karaoke rendition of George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’.

“Nobody tell him it’s April,” Bossuet had said, filming the spectacle. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Grantaire replied.

“He wouldn’t believe you if you did,” Combeferre countered. 

Enjolras was a different matter entirely.

“A fascinating phenomena,” Joly had quipped, opening his notebook to a new page. He jotted down the words ‘Enjolras vs. Alcohol Scale before continuing: “Rarely seen, but never to be missed.”

One drink was hardly noticeable. Two drink Enjolras wasn’t much different than one or no drink Enjolras. 

At Three, he’d get a bit flirty.

At Four, he once made out with Courfeyrac for fifteen minutes.

At Five, he got rambunctious. He’d give impassioned replicas of his revolutionary speeches, going on tangents about everything and anything. He’d slap anyone who dared interrupt.

At Six, he’d get sappy. He’d get dewy-eyed and wax poetic about how much he loved his friends, how lucky they all were, how beautiful life was.

Lucky number Seven meant he only spoke in French. No one questioned it either. 

Eight Drink Enjolras was still mostly French, however, he was not above throwing out Nicki Minaj lyrics.

Number nine was the farthest they’d ever seen him go. It wasn’t pleasant at that point, either.

_THEN._

_“Comment pensez-vous que les culières ?”_ he was saying. _“Elles sont très… très… ceci une blague, ouais? Les culières, elles sont une grande blague. J’n’le comprends jamais.”_

“Okay,” Courfeyrac said. “I think it’s about time to cut you off, Golden Boy.”

 _“Tu est un con,”_ Enjolras said with a giggle. _“Je l’adore. Stupide.”_

_“Ouais?”_

_“Mais tu parles le français comme une vache américaine.”_

_“Espagnole?”_

_“Américaine,”_ he insisted. _“Les américains, ils sont un blague. Sans déc.”_

“I see,” he said, glancing at Combeferre, who had paused his conversation about Joly’s hypothetical brain tumor to shrug at Drunk Enjolras.

_“Fils de salope.”_

_“Qui?”_

_“R. Vraiment, il a un grand air. Mais, je pense qu’il a le plus petit---”_

Bahorel guffawed, and Jehan clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back his laughter. “Enjolras!”

_“Je souhaite qu’il faire une partie de jambes en l’air. Avoir un grand fête avec le grand R, avoir un grand air.”_

“Sweet Jesus,” Grantaire murmured. “Either my French is rusty, or Our Fearless Leader is horny as hell.”

 _“Ferme ta gueule,”_ said leader replied, shoving his arm away. _“Je m’en fous. Je ne regrette rien.”_

Courf scrubbed a hand over his face. “Alright, buddy. I think it’s time for bed,”

_“J’n’ suis pas un putain, tu penses que je suis… facil?”_

“No?”

 _“Je veux aller,”_ he said, suddenly whiny. 

“Where?”

_“Chépas. Juste qu’avec Grantaire.”_

Grantaire blushed furiously. “He’s well and truly drunk, eh?”

“It seems that Eight Drink Enj is horny and only knows French,” Jehan said. “Who knew?”

 _“Je peux parle anglais,”_ the man in question interjected. _“Je peux le parler plus que vous.”_

Grantaire scoffed. “Say the alphabet backwards. Then we’ll talk.”

_“Nous parlons maintenant, putain. Je le sais. L’alphabet.”_

“I love how drunk Enj just resorts to calling everyone a whore,” Grantaire said.

 _“Nique ta mère, con,”_ he drawled.

“You’re an absolute slut. Just like your divine namesake, eh, Apollo?”

_“Couchez….”_

_“Avec moi? Ce soir?”_

_“Ces soirées là , je m’en fous.”_

_“Bien sûr, Apollo.”_

_“Je suis Bacchus.”_

“He’s Roman.”

_“J’ai lisait des romans, je sais que j’ai dire.”_

“Christ, was that a pun?”

_“Je t’amuse, non?”_

“I get it, yeah. Cognates, _les faux amis.”_

_“Sommes-nous les faux amis?”_

Grantaire froze momentarily, before skating over the question.

“I was thinking more of like, the words that sound alike.”

“Homophones?”

“Homo fun, amirite?”

_“Quoi?”_

“Like canard and connard.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says slowly. “I think we’ve capped our quota for poor decisions for the next six months.”

Drunk Enjolras evidently found this to be hysterical, so R took it as an opportunity to usher the Chief out of the bar. Bidding the others a goodnight, and sending reassurance texts to Combeferre and Eponine, he set off for Place Sainte-Germaine.

He could never figure out if Enjolras just couldn’t remember that night, or if he just didn’t want to. Either way, they never spoke of it. 

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

_THEN._

“I mean, what the hell?” Enjolras exclaimed. “Why’s he even come if he’s just gonna bitch the whole damn time?”

Courfeyrac shoved a handful of popcorn into his already full mouth. “Dunno, E. Maybe he’s a government spy.”

“Well, he’s doing a terrible job.”

“Maybe he really enjoys it.”

Enjolras looked puzzled. “That’s dumber than the spy theory.”

“He’s rather charming,” Courfeyrac countered.

“Charming?” he exclaimed. “Courf, a kitten in a bow tie is charming. The quaint English countryside charming. Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy is charming. Grantaire has all the charm of a used condom left on the bathroom floor.”

“Christ, E.”

“R isn’t a terrible person just because he doesn’t agree with your ideology,” Combeferre replied. “Dissent is the highest form of patriotism and all that.”

“Not that kind of dissent!”

“‘S kinda hypocritical of you, E,” Courfeyrac chimed in. “You’re two sides of the same coin.”

“Are not!”

“Search your feelings, you know it to be true.”

Enjolras blushed, grabbing his bowl of cereal. “Fuck it. I’ve got a paper to write.”

He stormed to his room, leaving before he could see Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange a knowing glance. 

“He’s so into him.”

“Indeed.”

“Dumbass.”

᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷᮷

_NOW._

He knocked on the door of Apt. 32. Getting no response, he let himself in. 

Enjolras was sitting at the kitchen table, a bottle of Calvados open before him. 

He hardly glanced up, sighing.

“Again?” 

“Enjolras---”

“I’m done, Grantaire,” he said, sounding weary. 

“I’m not.”

Enjolras stood, taking his bottle with him.

“Enj---”

“How do you still have more to say?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes,” he repeated. “When you asked if I reciprocated your feelings or whatever. The answer’s yes.”

Enjolras froze. 

“I mean… you didn’t specify what those feelings were, but it kinda implied that… well, I’m pretty sure you’re feeling what I’m feeling.”

“I… you… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying _yes, Apollo.”_

“You… you _like_ me?”

“Like’s a very small word, Enjolras,” he said. 

“Love?”

“It would seem so,” Grantaire replied, dazed.

“So?”

“So what?”

“So what’s next?”

He took the sculpted chin in his hands, and brought the rosebud lips to his own. Chest met chest, hearts pounding in sync, and before either of them realized it, Enjolras had his legs wrapped around Grantaire. 

“Clothes off,” he mumbled before returning to the blossoming hickey on R’s neck.

“Wait!” R exclaimed.

Enjolras paused. “Hmm?”

“Courf said not to have sex in the kitchen.”

A smirk. “Is that all?”

“Y-Yeah?”

“Couch.”

And when, three rounds later, Combeferre and Courfeyrac returned, the pair was asleep in front of the fireplace. Enjolras with his messy, tangled halo resting on R’s bare chest, his stupid French flag throw blanket draped over them.

“What the _fuck_ , guys?”

Enjolras opened his eyes and looked up at Grantaire.

“Gonna have to burn that damn couch now.”

They couldn’t help but laugh at that.


End file.
